I have vision, and the rest of the world wears bifocals

That's a quote from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Doesn't make too much sense if you think about it, but you get the idea. Paul Newman saw the world with a clarity that was foreign to most in Hollywood. The best-looking, arguably-most-complete man in the movies died yesterday at 83 of cancer. I'll leave the official eulogizing to the pros. Instead, some memories of Paul from my life, apart from the fact that I always always buy his pasta sauces:

His performance in 1982's The Verdict is a rhapsody, the crown jewel of his career, and should be part of any acting school curriculum. I will never tire of watching him in that movie. With grit and grace, he pilots Frank Galvin from the depths of alcoholism to the ridge of redemption, and is smart enough to bring his character to a place of truth rather than a place of resolution. Watch him closely in the summation scene, as Sidney Lumet slowly moves the camera in on this man -- this man who started so meek but who is now towering in this moment in time, for perhaps the first and last time in his life.


Of course, like any good man, he was a sucker for and splendid practitioner of comedy. He was a vulgar marvel in 1977's Slap Shot. I'd never seen him in an out-and-out comedy, and was continually astonished by the ways he appropriated his dramatics to the business of the low-brow.


I remember the serious silliness of 1974's The Towering Inferno and the cool mugging -- long before Clooney -- in 1973's The Sting. His youthful prime was in the 1960s, with The Hustler (drool) and Hud (see clips in my appreciation of Melvyn Douglas), where he appeared to mature into the man James Dean might've been, but with less suffocating Method and more personality. I'd never accuse Newman of being a chameleon; I've never seen him in a role that required an extreme transformation; he didn't suffer for his art. I've only seen a quarter or third of his filmography, but it seems that he never went that route. His craftsmanship blended his star power with an inner fire, which burned as blue as his eyes and which he could set to simmer or boil, depending on his assignment. If I could live my life over again as a movie star, I'd want to be Paul Newman. He just makes sense to me. The way he worked...the way he lived outside of work...his unyielding self-deprecation and disregard for his looks and talents. Right now, I can hear the talking head on CNN in the background. She's saying he will be remembered for more than just his movies. Which is exactly what he wanted.

I saw him once, in person, at a show in New York. Was it at The Apple Tree? I can't remember. But I remember him, and his wife Joanne Woodward, sitting a couple rows in front of me. In real life, he was a white-haired old man, a dutiful husband, unremarkable in appearance. But I remember thinking, "I'm seeing Paul Newman in real life. I'm seeing him. Remember this." And I have. Now he is dead, but that blue fire ain't. It's forever, like the movies. Here's a nice montage to close the matter for now:

This is mass madness, you maniacs

It's my favorite movie. And every year it gets less hyperbolic and more real. Except for one thing: No one is yelling yet. No one is listening to Howard Beale. Today, there are no mass protests, no swell of angry popular movement against the utter mismanagement of this country. Today, we watch the TV and the Internets as people tell us about bad stuff. But we don't get mad.

Financial institutions run everything. They can make us. They can ruin us. And they have ruined us. And now we're paying for their mistakes. But we don't get mad. We won't get mad. We will sit and watch our screens, as we have been doing for 30 years, and think, "Gee, this is bad. I hope things get better."

Case in point: I will publish this blog post, then return to work, happy to collect a paycheck while they still come to me. I will pick up some dry-cleaning, go to a show tonight, go home, watch TV or the Internets, sleep, get up and do it all again. I will pray that things stay okay, or I will ignore the distinct possibility they will not. But I won't do anything to affect the outcome. I will merely stay in bomb-drill mode, hands over my head, against a wall.

Someone grant sainthood to Cloris Leachman immediately

She's on Dancing with the Stars. In one 8-minute stretch, she foxtrots, gets two standing ovations, drapes her leg on the judges' table, spills out her cleavage, and calls one of the judges a "shit" on live national television. The woman is a goddamn national treasure.

And for some contrast:

Explaining the Holy Trinity

Roger Ebert called Nuns on the Run "funny only if you find nuns funny." Which I do.

Give Ernest Borgnine a hand

The secret to staying so youthful at 91 years old? Watch the clip below.

I love it when senior citizens get squirrely (as long as they're not touching me).

Everything's coming up Rose

And now, I attempt to disengorge my foot from my mouth. I saw the revival of Gypsy on Broadway over the weekend. I've badmouthed Patti LuPone to no end (to start: her Mrs. Lovett a couple years ago was irresponsible and awful), and even called her perhaps "the greatest scam perpetrated on the American people." You know I tend toward superlatives and absolutes. But I thought she was perfect perfect perfect and fabulous as crazy stage mother, Mama Rose, in this latest incarnation of the ultimate backstage musical. The show was uneven, but when it was on it was on. I especially relished the last third of the show, and the choices made by LuPone (and Laura Benanti as Louise). I think it's a classic case of actor and role being perfect for each other.

It's a lengthy, epic musical that builds to one of the best numbers in the canon: "Rose's Turn," wherein Mama Rose barbecues her ego and snacks on her id for dessert. Few climactic solo numbers have since lived up to this (except for maybe "Lot's Wife" from 2003's "Caroline, or Change"). Since Rose is on my brain, and since we've gotten a different version of her every decade since the '50s (including two in the past five years), here is a rundown of "Rose's Turn" with video and commentary. What's your favorite, and why?

Ethel Merman, Imperial Theatre, 1959

From the vantage point of 2008, she sounds like a parody of herself ("MAAA-mah"), but you can't deny her chops and how fresh this feels, even though it is an original cast recording from almost 50 years ago. It would've been so killer to see this live. I'd like to imagine her tearing apart the stage, but something tells me she probably stuck in one place and poured everything into the vocals. Merman's voice is prototypical Rose: big, brassy, demanding, deranged.

Rosalind Russell, Warner Bros., 1962

Russell barks most of the song (except when dubber Lisa Kirk sings for her), and the tricky emotional transitions are handled clumsily by director Mervyn LeRoy. Could've used a Steadicam, and less theatricality. But film does highlight the isolation of Rose: here, there simply is no audience. No one is around to give a rousing ovation, which happens every time in live theatre.

Angela Lansbury, Winter Garden Theatre, 1974

Stiff in movement, but manic in pacing, volume and facial acting, Lansbury hits the "Everything's coming up Rose" line with more speed than anyone before or since, and because of this we get a clear sense of her pathology. Whereas some actresses treat this climax as a chance to sell Rose's true-and-buried talent, Lansbury uses it to suggest Rose is maniacally delusional.

Tyne Daly, Marquis Theatre, 1989

Yikes. The first ever no-singing, no-acting performance of "Rose's Turn."

Bette Midler, CBS, 1993

Midler was, on paper, a smart choice for the TV version. She's a diva even before she begins to act. Here, she wails and flails. She stumbles in a daze and prowls with turn-turn-kick-turns. She tries every trick in the book and none of it feels exactly right.

Bernadette Peters, Shubert Theatre, 2003

This is an abbreviated version for the Tonys, and it gives us closeups we can't get in theater, but oh well. I saw this one in person at the Shubert. It was a crisp, clean show, and Peters' Rose was different than all who came before her: more coquettish, more vulnerable and spritely, more fragile than forceful. This Rose is pleading with us to right a wrong instead of demanding our attention or crumbling in a self-destructive heap. "Rose's Turn" here means "she wants this turn right now," not "I should've gotten a shot back then."

Patti LuPone, St. James Theatre, 2008

No video here, but you can imagine (if there's one thing the iterations of Gypsy are guilty of, it's relentlessly copycatting each other's look). There's a lot going on here, and it all works (unlike Midler's). Listen to her cackle and whisper. Listen to her shriek, "My name's ROSE." Listen to her mock Louise, then the audience, then herself. There's serious muscle behind this performance (unlike Bernadette's). And unlike Merman, Russell, Daly and all the traditional Roses she borrows bits from, LuPone's interpretation of the song feels most organic, like the lyrics are coming to her on the spot (the intentional vocal imperfections help). The song is a very bitter stream of consciousness, and this is the first time I can see and hear it as it was written.

There. Foot out of mouth.

The first glimmer of Corky St. Clair, eight years before "Red, White and Blaine"

Wait for 1:12.

Strangers in the night

The most memorable thing about Baby Mama on Sunday was the trailer that preceded it. The Strangers comes out May 30. On paper it must read like every other horror film of the past five years: yuppie couple terrorized in remote cabin by three masked crazypeople. Then why do I want to see it? Well, obviously: The trailer. Beautifully paced. Artfully composed. And the "inspired by true events" tagline sweetens the scent of any horror film, even though these particular "true events" seem to be the Manson family murders (I can't find any other real-life parallels), rather than a more recent off-the-radar occurence. The movie is going to make a shit-ton of money, simply because it's going to attract both the bloodthirsty demographic (key to making every torture-porn film No. 1 at the box office) and people like me (who love suspense movies but bristle at torture porn). Anyway, that's all. Glenn and Gabe at Videogum already posted about points I planned to ponder: the marketing and the supposed "true events." In the meantime, here is the trailer.

She's not my secretary; she's what they call an executive liaison; and I'm not banging her, if that's what you're implying

Wednesday was Administrative Professionals Day, so here we belatedly honor the best secretary in cinema: Floris, played by Mary Kay Place, in Being John Malkovich. Damn fine woman, Floris.

"I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're saying to me right now."

"What magic those fingers could work on the right cabinet. Maybe you should alphabetize me. And remember: 'I' comes before 'U.'"

Above is one of the best-written, funniest scenes in movies, and Place knocks it out of the park. The Floris/Dr. Lester storyline is probably the most ingenious, textured, hilarious subplot ever. It's a miracle. Do you have a favorite movie secretary? (If you need inspiration, The Film Experience flagged Maggie Gyllenhaal in Secretary [duh] and Michelle Pfeiffer in Batman Returns.)

A year of Robert Downey

This is (or will be) the year of Robert Downey Jr., and it's about time we had one of those, right? He is the sole reason I will rush to see Iron Man, which I hope is a big fat hit for him; his Iron Man character also makes an appearance in the Ed Norton Hulk sequel. He will play a homeless musician in Joe Wright's next movie, due out in November (hello, Oscar). And, most intriguingly, he plays a respected actor playing a black man in Ben Stiller's industry farce, Tropic Thunder. The trailer is delectable.

(Tom Cruise apparently has a cameo as a crazy studio executive, which is perfect, and the exact kind of role he needs at this point to start straining the radiation from the toxic fields of his career.)

Anyway...Robert Downey! We were reminded of his life force when Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang came out (you saw it, right? Why not? Asshole).

He's a natural onscreen, and I hope he continues to steadily work. We shouldn't expect any less -- the man steadily worked even while he battled a massive drug problem. I could go on and on about him, but there are things to do. I leave you with my first introduction to him: the charming, funny Heart and Souls, when he was a lad of 28.

Come on with the rain, I've a smile on my face

This week a two-day rainstorm settled over the Washington area and soaked us with about four inches. Whenever I'm out in the rain, I whistle "Singin' in the Rain," of course, and twirl on lamp posts. I mean, why not. After 36 hours of raining and twirling, though, it gets tiresome. So I started thinking about effective rainstorms in movies to take my mind off the deluge. Here are ones that immediately jumped to mind. Please add yours in the comments.

Jurassic Park. The automated Jeeps break down. A rainstorm gathers, the sky darkens, drops begin to fall (the plop-plop-plop on the Jeep's roof gives way to the T-Rex's distant stomping). Vision is obscured and sounds are muffled. Terror can leap from anywhere. The rain, in addition to being nerve-wrackingly atmospheric, also saves Lex and Tim: without the quickly muddied ground, the Jeep would've been crushed under the T-Rex's foot instead of sinking slowly.
Match Point. Sure, you can argue the rain is nature's way of disapproving of adultery, but I'm pretty sure Woody Allen uses it here for its erotic qualities alone.
The Shawshank Redemption. The drama of Tim Robbins' jailbreak is amplified by the thunder and lightning, and when he finally wrests himself free of the drainpipe he is met with a purgative downpour. It's a second baptism.
Singin' in the Rain. Obviously. It's situational irony here. Guy is ecstatically happy in crappy weather. In fact, the crappy weather serves to capitalize his Ecstasy simply by contrasting it. Bring on the shit, he says. It doesn't matter 'cause I'm in love. The sun's not in the sky; it's in his heart.
The Sound of Music. Liesl revels in puberty in the gazebo with Rolfe, then whees outside as lightning cracks and her white gown gets wet. It's a low-level loss of innocence, a metaphorical deflowering. The moment wouldn't have seemed as rebellious and wild if it wasn't pouring.

Celebrity Death Watch: Demi Moore

My brother has edited together another Celebrity Death Watch. This one is a mite more disturbing than the first -- Demi Moore seems to be dying of childbirth in two of the four clips, and that provides a nauseating contrast with the pop execution of Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle. (What does it say about me that Charlie's Angels is the only clip I can identify with certainty?)

There is no person I like more than Emma Thompson

With Stephen Fry in "Cambridge Footlights Revue" in 1982:

In a remix of scenes from her first movie, 1987's The Tall Guy:

As Frasier Crane's first wife in a commercial for a 1992 episode of "Cheers":

Eloquently accepting her best actress Oscar in 1993:

In The Remains of the Day that same year:

Accepting (as Jane Austen) a Golden Globe for best screenplay in 1996:

Giving the best performance cable TV has ever seen in 2001's Wit:

As the only good thing about Love Actually in 2003:

Baring her soul for an anti-human trafficking campaign in 2007:

Here's to 49 more years of peerless brilliance.

Watch Geoffrey Rush die four times at once

My brother is an editor, which means he weaves reality from scraps of fantasy (or is it the other way around?). Either way, here is his latest mini project: a synchronized split-screen of Geoffrey Rush expiring in -- clockwise starting from top left -- Les Miserables (self-drowning), Quills (fatal madness), Pirates of the Caribbean (gunshot wound) and House on Haunted Hill (monster? falling ceiling tiles?). The contrast between the sequences works beautifully, as does the manipulation of sound levels to catch bits of dialogue and swells of music. Sometimes things aren't special until you put them side by side, or one after the other. Who would you want to see die four times at once? An obvious one is Meryl Streep: of cancer in One True Thing, of poison in Sophie's Choice, pushed down the stairs in Death Becomes Her, assassinated in The Manchurian Candidate. And isn't she run off the road in Silkwood, or does that happen off-screen? And I've never seen Ironweed, but I know her character overdoses in the novel. My brother thinks Demi Moore might be next on his list, but hopefully Meryl will be soon after.

To Oscar: You don't own me

I'm not rushing to screenings. I'm not stocking my Netflix queue with new releases. I gloss over blogs that are posting about the Oscar race. I don't care, because I will be out of the country Jan. 15 to March 5 — effectively missing my first Oscar season in 13 years. You have no idea how liberating this feels. We Oscarphiles drag ourselves through ecstatic highs and depressive lows every year, and for what? A little golden man and some rich, misguided people? It's nice to be apart from the slog.

Yes, I must sacrifice certain pleasures by missing this season. The 10th anniversary year of my Oscar pool (which has become a global institution, thank you) will have to happen in 2009. I might've had the chance to liveblog the ceremony for the greatest newspaper in the country (not to mention take over for a movie critic for three months while he's away on book leave; oops). But such is real life, which is infinitely more varied and unusual than what passes for living during an Oscar season.

To end the workweek, a little First Wives Club. This is for Oscar:

Ain't nothin' like getting together with family and having a good meal

In honor of Thanksgiving week, and to gird ourselves for an onslaught of family, let us re-watch the funniest single scene in movie history: the first dinner scene in The Nutty Professor remake. Eddie Murphy plays five out of the six characters at the table. He deserved to be nominated for an Oscar for these performances (only the National Society of Film Critics saw him fit for a best actor commendation, an award he received opposite Emily Watson's slightly less flatulent performance in Breaking the Waves). Murphy -- guided, or perhaps loosed, by director Tom Shadyac -- creates seamless, exuberant, masterful comedy work in this scene. The pacing, the gleeful scatology, the precise and hilarious family dynamic created by just one man (and one fat little kid) exceeds brilliance. To sum it up in one word: fab-iluss.

Cologne meets the Seven Years War

A commercial for Diesel's fragrance Fuel for Life has been playing all over the tubes, and it's unnerving me because of its use of the first bar of music from the second movement of Franz Schubert's Piano Trio in E Flat (opus 100). It's right at the end of the commercial (left). Bah bah bah bah-da-dah. Gets my attention immediately, even though it seems to be in a key other than E flat. You might recognize the cue from Stanley Kubrick's Barry Lyndon (right), in which the trio's beauty is A) in the correct key, and B) not reduced to a catchy soundbite.

Symphony in Liz Taylor

The most recent clip (at right) made me laugh and laugh. Then it made me want to find two more clips of Liz in two other sections of her lifetime. I now sit and watch the three in succession and wonder what I should be feeling.

To celebrate the 30th anniversary of Star Wars

This ennobles YouTube.

Broads bilk the script at the '68 Oscars

While trolling through YouTube doing research for my Triple Crowners series, I came across this clip. Watch and be stunned:

This is Natalie Wood, Ingrid Bergman, Jane Fonda, Diahann Carroll and Rosalind Russell at the 1968 Academy Awards (which was the first year the ceremony was broadcast globally). They presented the best director Oscar, but not before admonishing the nominated directors for doing their best "to make female stars obsolete." Bergman starts off the patter with, "We are assembled here somewhat reluctantly..." and the quintet proceeds to mock the directors -- except Anthony Harvey, who had a female lead in Katharine Hepburn in The Lion in Winter -- for stacking their casts with men exclusively. (Bergman herself disqualifies Olivia Hussey, who played Juliet in nominee Franco Zeffirelli's Shakespeare adaptation, by brushing her off as "a teenaged newcomer" in a tone that is mischievous at best, contemptuous at worst.) Fonda and Russell in particular appear to be reveling in their own rebellion.

I've devoured my share of Oscar-related books, and I've never heard of this bit of unscripted subterfuge. After finding this clip, I tried to Google my way to answers: Whose idea was it? It must've been planned and rehearsed -- how else could it have been executed so flawlessly? What was the general reaction at the time, besides a surprised smattering of laughter in the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion? How come the winner, Carol Reed, didn't respond during his acceptance speech? I found no answers online. The quintet of women aren't even listed as presenting the 1968 best director Oscar in the "Self" section of their IMDb filmographies. I scoured my Oscar books and found no mention of the incident. And yet here these women are, plain as day on YouTube, sticking it to the men and then politely giving the Oscar to one of them.

Has anyone heard of this before? Is this old news? And do you think these women's stunt was purposeful or tactless? Either way, it's one of the few Oscar clips that the Academy has not pulled selfishly and unreasonably from YouTube. Watch it while you can, if only to hear Russell dismiss HAL 9000 as "girlish."